


Leviathan

by osunism



Series: Ghostline [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Choking, F/M, Implied knife play, sexual asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rylen realizes that Ariadne’s beauty is skin-deep and beneath it is something he’s not sure he wants brought to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leviathan

The room is muggy, and the scent of them commingles in the air as if someone has spilled over a bottle of  _ **fuck**_. She is straddling him, her skin still slippery with sweat, hair hanging in damp waves, which she tosses over one shoulder. Rylen stares up at her, idly running his calloused fingertips over one of her silverite throwing knives. They are weighted especially for the task, and Ariadne watches him with a gaze that matches the blade’s glittering edge, her expression likened to a lioness over the drinking pool.

Rylen is unsure if the predator within her is sated or newly-roused.

“You’re something else, Ghost,” he tells her, “giving me everything and nothing at the same time.” He smirks up at her, freeing one hand to trace the scarred canvas of her ribs, fingertips barely trailing the underside of her breast. He thumbs one of her nipples, and feels her respond by way of tightening her thighs around him. He’s long since grown soft, but he knows Ariadne will find away to drain him to the last drop if she wishes.

“Have I given you everything, son of Starkhaven?” She asks, watching him, even as his roving hand cups and kneads her breast, tormenting the dusky bud of her nipple into stiffness. He lightly pinches it, marvels at her self-control, but something flickers in her eyes briefly and she shifts her hips just so, her seed-slicked cunt sliding against his skin. Maker!

“Good question,” he muses, abandoning her breasts to grip her waist, then her hip, “I guess one could say you’ve given me your body, but everything else remains a damned mystery.” Ariadne shifts against, and Rylen feels the stirrings of desire in his blood. She is as calm as a winter morning, sliding her hands along his chest, and resting one hand along his throat.

“What makes you think I have given my body to you, ser?” She asks, and her voice is a heady dichotomy of dangerous and tempting. Rylen wants to goad the creature he sees swimming beneath this woman’s skin, wants to taste the blood its claws can draw, but knows that he courts death. His hand slips below her waist, a line crossed by countless men…the last supper for some. He doesn’t answer her with words, and she doesn’t respond until he’s slicked her clit with his seed, teasing it to swell again. Ariadne swallows against a sound in her throat, even as her fingers tighten on his.

“You haven’t,” he tells her, “but I think you want to.” His breathing comes with difficulty; Ariadne’s grip is sure, even as she rocks her hips in a counter-rhythm to his stroking finger. He has never seen someone so in control of their own desire, and she holds it in rigid check as sure as if she is breaking in a hellion steed. He feels the bite of her nails in his throat, winces, and keeps stroking her until her eyelids flicker, until the pale eyes roll back a little and then she shuts them.

“That’s it…” He encourages, never letting up, even as her grip grows tighter. He’s hard again, the black dots of asphyxiation dancing in his vision, and Ariadne wastes no time. She rises up, reaches back with her free hand and guides him into her. She does not release his throat. Rylen tosses the throwing knife aside to grip her hips, heedless of the metallic clatter across the room.

And Ariadne shows him the difference between giving and taking.

She takes him, muscles in a body honed for pleasure and war alike rippling beneath scarred skin. She rides him hard, somehow controlling the pressure of her hold on his throat, keeping him just out of reach of the black, caught between darkness and light. His cock feels like its being stroked by a wet, velvet fist, his pulse beating like a trapped thing against the cage of her fingers.

“ _Give_ , Rylen.” She orders, and there is something  _wild_ surfacing in her, something savage and dangerous she keeps tightly leashed. It is snarling and ravenous, threatening to devour him, and the pleasure is so great that he obeys without thinking. He offers up himself as a sacrifice to the creature astride him, the bite of her claws, the clamp of her grip, the slick of her cunt all serving to make his surrender sweeter.

Rylen gives. Ariadne takes.


End file.
